Is chaos.
Is frightening.
Is wonderful.
Just is.

My husband says we should write something about the process. So here it is.
Al is a poet. I write prose. I turn his poetry into sentences and he turns my lines into poetry. There is hair pulling and bright lines wavering in the dark universe. If the lines come together, we have a story.

Then there is Noah Homes. He listens to our demands and puts them inside a churning box of magic. He has a magic wand :D

Then we have a cover. It changes the bright lines. Adds colour to the weave.

The we knit, and knit. Our heads hurt. We miss appointments and birthdays.

But then it's done.

Not long now :)

He couldn’t stop the dust and yesterday he burnt the chicken and for a dark moment he almost couldn’t cope...
Bang went the door in his head.
In three hundred steps, he could make out the outline of Anthony’s garden in the distance. It was only the end of the street but sometimes it seemed much further away, too far away.
Anthony was out the front garden with Kylie, tied up with scarves. Princess Arabella sat regally watching, wearing a tiara. It looked messy and silly and Charlie’s heart hurt.
“Charlie, you can be my prince,” Kylie shouted enthusiastically. “We have a bad prisoner here who doesn’t get any tea.”
Anthony winked at Charlie, which had a surprisingly strong suppressing effect on the stomach itching. “But I’m starving. Don’t prisoners have any rights?”
“What did he do, Kylie?”
“He sat on froggie and farted and that’s so offensive. Isn’t it princes Arabella?”
Anthony erupted into peals of laughter, or maybe it was Charlie laughing. Sometimes he couldn’t tell. Whoever it was, it made Charlie’s shoulders feel much more comfortable. Kylie glared at him. “I think you need to be a prisoner too. Laughing at a crime is not very nice. Sit down there.”
He obediently sat next to Anthony, who leaned his head on Charlie’s shoulder. “We’re in proper trouble now.” Charlie leaned his head gently back at Anthony, because he didn’t want to accidentally head butt him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the red hair mingling with the blond.
It was a long way from his own house and the dust.
“Yes you are. You have to hold hands while I think what punishment you need.” She stuck her hands on her hips and thought. Princess Arabella climbed onto Charlie’s lap and stared at him balefully.
“Ok. You know upstairs in my room?” Anthony took Charlie’s hand and squeezed. Charlie’s throat and heart simultaneously leapt.
Kylie nodded. “It smells in there.”
“Well. If you go up and look on my desk, there’s a ...”
“No. Not going to work. That’s just a trick.”
Anthony’s thumb began stroking the top of Charlie’s hand. Usually he hated it when Kylie made them play, but he began to wish it would go on for a long time.
For ever.
A light breeze brushed past making him shiver everywhere except his hand and arm.
“You ok?” Anthony suddenly asked, turning his head so they were face to face, and a lot of hair. Charlie thought.
“How do you mean?” Because, he was very much ok with the hand holding but not with the bills or the broken tumble dryer. He was not ok with mum, and he was not ok with princess Arabella standing on his crotch.
But then he looked back.
Faces, faces. When Charlie was younger, people talked a lot about faces. Mum had a set of little cards but she gave up when he once said faces were like countries, and no-one in their right minds would ask you if a country was happy, deeply resentful, or filled with unrequited desire.
Anthony’s eyes stopped him every time. They weren’t a colour, more a blue forest of colours and reflections, and memories. Blue forests and green oceans, and everything he knew was right seemed dubious.
But now, they were cross eyed, and it was probable that Anthony Pace was about to make a joke.
“You’re not feeling well are you? So, we have to get you inside and make you a nice cuppa, eh Kylie? And I think princess might like a little snack ‘cause she’s starting to nibble Charlie’s leg.”
“Don’t eat him he’s a criminal, stupid” she shouted, and ran off into the house with the dog yapping behind her.
But still, Anthony didn’t let go of his hand. It was bad, really, really, bad, that Charlie could enjoy this so much after what just happened at home.
Anthony’s hand slid around to stroke Charlie’s wrist. Lungs and wrists weren’t connected as far as Charlie knew so the weird embarrassing gasp that bubbled out must be something explainable, like hay fever.
“Do you ever wonder,” said Anthony casually, “If there might be parallel universe worlds of us?”
There were many things that Charlie wondered, but this wasn’t one of them. Mostly what he wondered was why that hand felt so unlike anything else. Anthony Pace touched him plenty of times – not in a touching way, obviously – as they exchanged books, took cups, slapped each other round the head. Anthony Pace had long bony legs and a thin face with a medium shaped nose. He was just flesh and blood, but what was coming from his hand was something else.
Charlie realised Anthony was waiting for an answer, which didn’t happen very often. And he was staring.
“Blue,” said Charlie. “Your eyes are blue.”
If there were other universes, at that moment Charlie would gladly have swapped places with any of them.
“Well, durr.”
The stroking stopped and somehow it happened that Anthony Pace and Charlie Woods were sitting in the front garden of Anthony’s house. Tied up and holding hands. Charlie’s nothingness was completely gone, but he wasn’t sure what had replaced it. Only that it felt like they were strangers from a parallel universe.
“Read me your new poem?”
Anthony’s face lit up. “Really? Come on up then.”
And just like that, whatever it was vanished ...
****